


Querelle A Trois (the Like Butterflies Around A Flame remix)

by geckoholic



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, kinda fluffy i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 10:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7570780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, it's Gaby who took the bullet, and the boys who do the fussing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Querelle A Trois (the Like Butterflies Around A Flame remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Querelle A Trois](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697451) by [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/pseuds/within_a_dream). 



> Beta-read by rosereddawn. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Birds Of A Feather" by The Civil Wars.

Gaby considers herself a quick thinker. Swift reactions to any given situation, good in a crisis. That's one of her strengths. Turns out, thinking on your feet like that is way harder when you've got a bullet hole in your side, blood seeping out between your fingers while you're clutching at the wound. She's rather certain it hit nothing vital. Lower abdomen, far to the side, straight through muscles and fat. But it still _hurts_. And she's light-headed, which means the amount of blood she lost is inching towards critical. Ten minutes, twenty if she's lucky, and it's lights out. She needs to find Illya and Napoleon. She needs to find them _fast_. 

One hand flailing out to support herself against the rough stone walls that leads up from the old wine cellar to the main estate, she climbs the stairs. Every step feels like she's drawing her feet through heavy mud. She knows she's leaving a trail; one that will lead back to Ostroff's body later. Another reason why she should hurry out of here. If Madame Ostroff finds her brother dead, a bullet wound will be the least of Gaby's worries. 

She drags in a heavy breath and blinks, her vision swimming. In order to keep herself from fainting too soon, she presses her fingers into the flesh around the wound, and bites her lips to keep from crying out. But it does the job: her senses sharpen as another dose of adrenaline floods her body. She speeds up her pace, not quite daring to take two steps at once. The risk that she'll lose her balance and stumble is too high. 

She's almost at the top of the stairs when she hears a familiar voice shouting her name in between obscenities in Russian. Gaby finds it in her to smile; he's a force of nature when he's worried, all his carefully bottled anger unleashed with a single purpose. Never before has she liked her men that rough, volatile, but it helps to know that he will never turn that anger _towards_ her. He'll only ever aim it at those who dare to so much as harm a hair on her head. Or Napoleon's, for that matter. 

The last wave of adrenaline slowly fades from her system, as abruptly as it came, and she leans against the wall outside the cellar, forehead resting against the cold stone. Just a moment, now. He'll be here. He's got her back – 

 

***

 

When she comes to, Gaby's laid out on a bed, propped up against something soft and warm. Some _one_ soft and warm, to be precise, and from the way he smells, more gun powder and less after shave, she suspects it's Illya. She could open her eyes and make sure, but she's comfortable, and he's got an arm around her, idly drawing his fingers through her hair, and she has earned herself a little indulgence. And so she listens to the the sound of his breathing, and to whatever puttering Napoleon's doing across the room. He's nervous when he's worried, fidgety, he paces and sorts things that don't need sorting, then reorders them all over again, just to have something to do with his hands. Considering that, she should probably put him out of his misery. 

She yawns and opens her eyes. She tries to sit up a little, but her head's swimming and her side is still throbbing something fierce, so she aborts the attempt. 

“Ohh,” Illya says, voice low and concerned, and leans down to press a kiss against her temple. “There you are. Solo, come here. She's awake. Come here.” 

Gaby doesn't have to look; the sound is enough, implies rare and undignified scrambling in order to rush to her side in the fastest manner possible, and she has trouble suppressing a fond smile. Soon both of them are in her immediate field of vision. Illya's looking at her from from sideways-above, and Napoleon brushes his palm across her forehead. She heroically ignores the opening for a snide comment about how she got _shot_ and doesn't have a _fever_. Their worried faces, all furrowed foreheads and wide eyes, remind her why she loves them both that much and will never feel an ounce of regret about that. 

She sweeps her hand at them both, half-heartedly flapping it at them so they may back off and leave her alone. It's appearances only. She knows they won't obey, and she doesn't actually want them to either. “Oh my god. Stop fussing.” 

Illya leans back, but tightens his arms where he's holding her, and Napoleon settles back to perch on the edge of the bed, although not without sending a seething glare at Illya, presumably because it was him who came up with the idea of cuddling her in her sleep so that the cuddling will continue after she's awake before Napoleon had a change to think of it. They're competitive, her boys. About her most of all, no matter how much she assures them that she doesn't plan on letting go of either of them anytime soon. 

She motions for the bottle of soda already waiting for her on the nightstand; they're all familiar with the aftereffects of blood loss at this point. 

Napoleon hands it to her, his face sets in a disapproving expression. He scowls. “You had us worried.” 

“Yes,” Illya agrees with him, a seldom and precious occurrence. “I don't like it when you get hurt.” 

She can hear the terror in his voice, barely hidden, feel the way his heart beat speeds up, and presses herself deeper into his embrace. She'd complain about him being condescending, but knife and bullet wounds are the scary when inflicted on someone you love, and she can relate. She'll let it fly just this once. 

Napoleon isn't so forgiving. He glares in Illya's direction – which isn't really that big a change from his regular expression, but Gaby's learned to read between the lines – and clicks his tongue. “Well, at least _she_ didn't try to hide the fact that she'd been shot. Unlike someone else we both know.”

Illya frowns, a little contrite, but he quickly returns his attention to her, stroking his thumb across the back of her hand. There's not much else to say about this topic; all three of them know injuries like this come with the job, and they're also all aware the other two have no intention of hanging up the spy business in the near future, so this will keep happening. Next time it'll be one of the boys, and she'll be the one fussing. It's not fun, and it makes her ache with worry and an unnamed fear she doesn't confront because it'd never let go of her ever again if she'd so much as acknowledge it exists. 

Her eyes meet Napoleon's as she looks up, and she sees that fear reflected in them. He smiles, leans forward and presses his lips to hers, and, inciting a huff from Illya, stretches out to lie down on his other side, threading their fingers together over Illya's stomach. 

Gaby closes her eyes and drinks in this moment: the three of them, together and untouchable. The job may be risky and occasionally scare her senseless, but it made them a team. It made them _this_ , and however scary it might be, however fragile, it's the best thing that ever happened to her.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
